Of centuries.
Then it became a ghost town
Of dilapidated buildings.
The winds liked it as a magnet
Whirling around.
There they would sing their sad
Hearts out in solitude
Round the wide desert of solitude
Stretched.
Yet in the Night with ghosts and shrouds
Roamed Inner Souls.
I see Hope move away before the Dawn
It comes at night then leaves.
The days always rise drear even in Spring
When some wayward flowers blossoms.
And in the winter there’s the feast of
Dread storms all time, all hoar and ever.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem